It was meant to be an ordinary morning, one that had repeated hundreds of times for the little boy and the guards who failed to notice his efforts. Everything was as usual. Olekir climbed onto the wall; the warriors glanced at him at first but quickly lost interest, staring at the horizon and swapping jokes. The boy began to run, slowly and clumsily, struggling through the snow that had fallen heavily the night before. Meanwhile, the watch walked calmly beneath the battlements, occasionally glancing down and calling out to one another.
— Hey! Did you see that?
— See what?
— Over by the woods, I think something darted past.
— Ah, that. Probably wolves, don't worry about it.
— But what if?
— Don't raise a fuss unless they come out of the forest.
The boy ran forward, gradually becoming faster and faster; devoid of thought, he moved mechanically, and the world could not affect him. Suddenly, a flash lit up the sky, but it wasn't gentle sunlight; it was a cold, metallic enchantment that spread across the sky from the south-west. It happened so suddenly that no one even had time to think — strange how it swallowed everyone and vanished just as abruptly. The guards, who had been energetic just moments ago, were now exhausted. Grabbing the battlements in a panic, they shouted to one another. The corporal lost a lot of time just bringing his men to their senses and carrying out checks. Only then did they notice something strange: on a cold winter morning, a warm wind was blowing.
The boy was found quickly. The snow around him had melted, and his clothes slowly smouldered away, exposing his skin. He arched and writhed but did not scream; his eyes rolled frantically beneath his eyelids. Several guards tried to wake him, but it was in vain; they didn't even dare touch him. One of the brave ones, covered in snow, didn't even manage to step off the wall before he completely dried up and nearly caught fire. In desperation, they woke several house-guards and herbalists. Upon their arrival, the boy was carried to the infirmary.
— What's wrong with him? — the house-guard whispered when the herbalist finished his examination.
— I've never seen anything like it. This heat isn't natural.
— Don't look at me, I don't understand it any better than you do.
— Perhaps we should call one of those witches from the undercroft to take a look?
— They were all recalled to the border tower a few days ago, and only the sun knows when they'll return.
— Then maybe...
— No. We can neither recall them nor take the boy to them. The tower is cut off from the world.
And things grew worse there: the bedding smouldered, the furs dried out, and the stone blocks grew so hot that the servant girls later used them instead of fire in the stoves. Unable to bear it, they tried to place him in a wooden tub, but it quickly sprang leaks, and the infirmary became so stifling and steamy that the herbalists opened all the shutters and doors, working outside by the windows to brew their decoctions. Fortunately for them, Myroslava gladly entered that hell for her son's sake, hesitant to leave him for long.
— Is she still by his side?
— Yes. I can't imagine how she does it — it's a literal hell in there!
— He's her only child...
— Well, she's afraid he'll die and she'll be demoted from concubine to servant.
Boryvitr visited Olekir only once, when he wanted to find out what had happened in the infirmary. He heard the herbalists' words and ordered the boy to be taken to the North Tower. The very one where the boy used to train in solitude and where the guards hated to stand watch, where the cold wind chilled one to the bone. And instead of a wooden tub, he was given a metal one. The warriors and children were forced to carry snow and ice from all over the fortress during their training.
But while everyone in the fortress was trying to keep Olekir from burning up, a fiercer struggle was igniting in his mind. Immediately after the light, an unknown entity had slipped into his body. A powerful warrior, having penetrated his consciousness, pressed with all his might and fought for control over the body, forcing his own power to flow through the veins, muscles, and bones. This warrior tried to seize control of the body while the boy fought a losing defence. Day after day was spent in the fierce agony of constant struggle. And just when he was about to lose himself completely, hope arrived.
Yaroslava burst onto the tower, not yet having changed out of her travelling clothes and pushing aside an unlucky warrior carrying yet another bucket of ice and snow. Having no time for greetings, she stood over Myroslava and began to pour her own power into Olekir's body. Like a wave crashing onto the shore, she halted the ruthless onslaught, easing the boy's suffering. And for the first time in a long while, he fell into a peaceful sleep, a slight tremor rippling through his body.
— Yaroslava? When did you... What's wrong with Olekir?
— Mother. This is very serious. It's even worse than I imagined.
The girl's response was swift. She had heard of such things while in the capital. At that time, messengers were arriving from everywhere with the same story: someone would suddenly collapse, consumed by heat, and after a few days without the help of a sorceress or warrior, they would suddenly get better, but their personality would undergo a radical change — some became better, some worse. Several were captured after committing unforgivable crimes and interrogated; they said they had seen the future. And when a messenger unofficially informed her of Olekir's condition, she rushed back without a second thought.
Yaroslava tried with all her might to suppress the power in the boy's body. Pouring in her own without a plan was only effective at the start. However, within a day, she began to meet resistance, which meant she had to move from brute suppression to charms. Carefully, the girl carved runes onto his body to release the power, or crudely cut his veins to drain it with his blood, but it is hard to describe the horror felt by Yaroslava and other accidental witnesses when they saw the blood flow back into the wound as if alive, the injury healing without a scar with a hiss. She tried everything, but over time a counter-action appeared, and in the end, she had nothing left to do but simply support Olekir in a struggle that already seemed lost.
— Young mistress. Lady Velemira has returned and wishes to see you.
— I see. I must go, but I'll be back quickly; perhaps I can persuade Mother to help.
Yaroslava was exhausted, and it showed: her beauty had faded, though not entirely. When she tried to stand, she nearly fell, but the servant and Myroslava quickly supported her.
— Do you need help?
— No, Mother, I'll manage. Help from Ladyna will be enough. You'd better watch over Olekir.
The girl relied on the servant's help on the tower stairs and in the fortress corridors, leaning against the walls from fatigue. But they hadn't even made it halfway to Velemira's chambers when Mstyslav jumped out from around a corner. He crashed into Yaroslava and nearly knocked her to the floor, if not for the servant's timely support. The boy was about to mutter something at first, but quickly realised who was in front of him.
— Sister! What happened to you? You look like you've come out of hell!
— I suppose you could call it that. But I was simply by our brother's side.
— Ratibor? You've finally decided to accept his feelings? But he didn't say anything about it...
— No! Where did you get that from? I would never do that. I was with Olekir. You know what state he's in.
— What state! He's just pretending to be ill so he can lounge in a hot bath. I don't understand how Father allows it, and even makes people carry water!
— Mstyslav, I don't know where you heard that, but it isn't true, and Olekir's life is at risk. Now excuse me, I must go.
Yaroslava tried to go around the boy, but he wouldn't step aside, and a crowd had already begun to gather around them. Quite quickly, the girl saw Velemira's personal servant approaching, frowning at the spectacle. Yaroslava stood there drained, unable even to push past the boy, when suddenly she felt something. It was as if a warm autumn wind enveloped her body, and with it came strength, but it carried strange, happy, and painful memories. When she came to her senses, she was still standing in the corridor, and Mstyslav was clutching at her clothes.
— Get out.
It was the only word she suddenly spoke, clearly and sharply, making everyone around her recoil slightly. But the boy had no intention of listening; he started talking again. Yaroslava spoke no more words: her once gentle smile turned into predatory fury. By her will, the power formed into a swift torrent of wind that threw the boy against the nearest wall, followed by another strike that seemed intended to crush Mstyslav — who began to bleed from the mouth — into the stone.
— Mistress, enough.
Yaroslava regained a fragile clarity at her servant's words and turned abruptly to leave. It was as if all her fatigue had been a mere act. Velemira's servant did not linger: she gave a few instructions and quickly vanished, hurrying to tell her mistress everything. Yaroslava, meanwhile, did not rush, organising the knowledge she had received.
— Well, are you satisfied?
— No, not even slightly. I wanted...
— Enough. I know. But still, you could have been gentler.
— If he weren't the way he is, I would be gentler and kinder to him, just as I am with Olekir.
Velemira sighed heavily and leaned back in her chair. She understood the strained relationship perfectly well, but she still didn't understand when it had all gone wrong. And she was particularly interested in the changes in Yaroslava, who didn't even try to hide her disgust and her desire to kill Mstyslav.
— Well, what about Olekir? Can you handle it, or perhaps...
— I won't resort to that option until the very last moment.
— I know.
— Mother. I need your — no, I need the help of the entire undercroft.
— Is it really that serious?
Velemira's tone became lower and somewhat alarmed; she trusted her daughter, but this seemed excessive to her. Yaroslava, however, didn't even change her breathing or look away, which surprised Velemira.
— Come. Show me what makes you think so.
Together they hurried to the tower, gliding through corridors and up stairs using their power. Discussing possible solutions, they went out into the courtyard and glided along the wall to reach the top of the tower. And Velemira was somewhat concerned about her daughter this time: she noticed certain changes — the voice and tone, as well as the gaze, tired, exhausted, and older, hiding a painful experience, but ultimately it was her daughter. Yaroslava, however, was preoccupied with Olekir and did not notice her mother's searching look.
Finally, they reached the top of the tower. Only then did Velemira look closely at the boy, and an instinctive fear gripped her. She, better than anyone, could feel and see the flows of power. In that moment, the woman made the only possible and acceptable decision.
— This must never be let loose.
Though she hoped her words hadn't been heard, the eyes of everyone present, except Olekir, immediately turned to her. Unable to withstand her daughter's gaze, Velemira sighed heavily.
— Quickly, take him and carry him to the undercroft. We must hurry.